Different Breeds
by neverevesangel
Summary: Various short stories featuring Aziraphale and Crowley. Different prompts and styles, but mostly fluff and angst. A/C SLASH. Title taken from the song by London Grammar.
1. 01 Serpentine

_This is a collection of short stories set in the Good Omens universe. Which I clearly don't own, otherwise those two loveable morons would have kissed on the show. This is also the first time I publish some of my stories so please bear with me. I did not even attempt to imitate Neil and Terry's prose as that would be an impossible task but I do try to keep Aziraphale and Crowley in-character as best I can. Occasionally I write about other characters but most stories are and will be centered on the Ineffable Husbands._

_Reviews and constructive criticism are fuel to a writer's creativity!_

_Reuploaded on 08.09.2019._

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**#01 SERPENTINE**

_Fluff, established A/C relationship, mild angst and eventual hurt/comfort._

On Thursday morning, Crowley is nowhere to be found. Aziraphale brews himself some Earl Grey and resolves not to worry too much.

Before noon, caffeine-fueled anxiety overwhelms him. He grabs his coat and hurries outside where the Bentley is huddled against the sidewalk as if it was asleep. This has him hesitate for a moment. For the demon to leave his care behind was quite unusual.

_What has he gotten himself into now?_

Without Crowley to drive him - and with too many people about to unfold his wings - Aziraphale has no choice but to go on foot. The demon's apartment is his first destination, but it is as empty and lifeless as ever. Oddly enough the distinct sense of dread Aziraphale keeps picking up at the place has diminished in the demon's absence.

He lingers long enough to water the plants, wondering whether perhaps Crowley didn't _want_ to be found. The notion stings and won't go away.

Because he cannot think of any other place that the demon might have withdrawn to, he wanders aimlessly through Soho until his legs, apparently with a mind of their own, carry him to St James' Park. Every gleam of red in his periphery startles him and he spins around, expecting shades and a smirk only to face a stranger.

The ducks soon realise that he brought no bread to feed them and they waddle off sullenly. A smile pulls at Aziraphale's lips when he remembers that one time here, long ago, when _he'd_ stormed off and Crowley'd been the one to glare.

_I have lots of other people to fraternise with, angel._

They are beyond that now, fraternising. He wonders sometimes if God approves, and if She doesn't, why are they left in peace?

A shapeless sense of warmth brushes over him then, and it is so familiar that he almost misses its touch. "Crowley," he breathes, certain now that the demon is somewhere close by. He can _feel _him.

It still takes him a while to track the demon down. He looks for auburn hair and dark clothing, and marches past the rose hedge three times before he bothers to look around. On a flat round stone, well hidden from the park visitors, he finds him coiled and writhing.

Startled by the noise of Aziraphale half breaking through the bushes, the snake lifts its head and hisses quietly, its forked tongue slipping out to take in the air.

"It's me," the angel whispers and carefully extends one hand toward the creature. "You recognise my scent, don't you?"

There is no reply and he had not expected one but the snake leans forward to brush its nose against the the angels's palm. Aziraphale can feel its brittle skin against his own and realises that it is shedding. It is September and the temperature barely climbs above ten degrees in London these days.

"Why did you leave?" he asks softly. "You must be freezing out here."

The snake recoils from his touch and slithers away, moving slow and sluggishly. It hisses again, baring its fangs in a thingly veiled threat that fails to impress Aziraphale, because now he is beginning to understand.

"I have known you first as a serpent," he says and sinks to his knees before the snake,"when we were both still in the Garden and thought we understood the world. We have learned so much since then, haven't we? Sometimes I wondered why you never went back into your original form. I thought perhaps you simply never did it when I was around.

"But you were ashamed, weren't you? And you were afraid that it would remind me of your true nature, that I would remember to hate you and everything you stand for."

There is another hiss at his words and the snake withdraws further into the shadow of the rock, pressing against it and coiling tighter around itself. Aziraphale still reaches out a hand to brush over the creature's icy scales, not allowing it to break the contact.

"There is no need for shame, my dear. I have always known that you are serpentine at heart."

He pulls his hand away, but turns it over and offers it to the snake.

"Will you come home with me now?"


	2. 02 Lionheart

**#02 LIONHEART**

_Angst (like, a lot of it), major character death, established relationship (sort of), post-armaggedon't AU, inspired by "King & Lionheart" by Of Monsters And Men_

They sense it both at roughly the same time. A ripple in reality. A breach. They are coming.

The demon jumps into his Bentley. About the destination there is no question at all on his mind. He pulls up at the bookshop where clever blue eyes in a round face are watching already from behind a window.

He storms inside.

"Something is terribly wrong," Aziraphale says, wringing his hands. "I thought it was _over_."

"They found a way. Somehow they found a way."

Their eyes meet.

"They will come for us," the angel whispers. "They will come for the boy, too."

Crowley shrugs half-heartedly. "We could leave before they do. Alpha Centauri?"

Suddenly the angel's face hardens. "No. Earth is our home now. We shall _fight_ for it."

_-/-_

Death does not seem surprised when they find him - but then again, the fourth rider is hardly ever surprised by anything.

WHY HAVE YOU SOUGHT ME OUT, LITTLE ONE?

"You must know what is happening." Aziraphale's voice does not break but it trembles. "It is all going to ruin. What should we _do_?"

THE END IS COMING. SOON THERE WILL BE WAR ON EARTH. THERE IS NOTHING TO DO, LITTLE ONE, EXCEPT FIGHT AND FALL. YOUR KIND WILL BE SLAIN AND HUMANITY WIPED OUT.

"So Hell will win?"

Death makes a rough sound that might have been laughter. NOBODY WILL WIN THE LAST WAR.

Crowley decides he's had enough. "Ever thought about what happens to you when life is no more? What's the universe going to need death for then, huh?"

THERE IS MORE LIFE IN THE UNIVERSE THAN YOU KNOW. BUT YOU AMUSE ME. HERE, LITTLE ONE. I BELIEVE THIS IS YOURS.

Out of nowhere the sword materialises in front of them. There is no heavenly hum, or harp strumming, not even a meaningful _poof_. It just shows up, looking rather more ordinary than it ought to.

Aziraphale grasps the hilt and seems surprised when it yields to him. A spark dances along the blade as if to greet its old master. "Thank you," he says quietly.

I APPRECIATE A FAIR FIGHT. GO NOW. I SHALL SEE YOU SOON ENOUGH.

"Wait," Aziraphale calls. The hooded figure turns its head. "What is there going to be afterwards? When we die?"

HOW WOULD I KNOW? Death replies. Then he's gone.

And the ground trembles and the clouds are torn apart as the forces of Heaven and Hell descend upon one another. The last war has begun.

-/-

Somehow one angel and one demon slip past the raging battle, speeding towards Tadfield in an ancient Bentley Lagunda. They put on _We Are The Champions _to drown out the noise from outside and it does wonders for morale.

They also pretend they are not holding hands (and it is more a desperate _clutching_ of hands really, with knuckles white and fingernails pressing into soft flesh, and it's their way of admitting that they are terrified).

When they arrive it is already too late for the town. Auriel, Archangel of Hope, looms overhead on wings of pure light and sings to her children as they burn it all down. Her voice is terrible and beautiful all at once, ethereal as it sends icy shivers down Crowley's spine. He tears his eyes away.

They find the children eventually, by the apple orchard past Jasmine Cottage, huddled together behind Adam and he wears his determination like armor - not that it would be any use against celestial blades.

"How is this happening?" Adam demands. "I ended this over a year ago. I _stopped _it all."

Aziraphale smiles sadly at the boy. "It seems the end was merely delayed. None of this is your fault."

"Of course not." Adam bristles but the fury in his eyes cannot fully conceal his fear. "I just hung around here, minding my own business. Did _you_ have anything to do with it?"

"Watch your mouth, boy," Crowley snarls before the angel can say anything. "We came here to protect you and your little friends."

"A noble goal to be sure."

Auriel is serenity incarnate as she floats above them and the sound of her voice washes over Crowley like half-frozen water. Her blinding halo alone forces him down, paralyzed, to watch helplessly as the Archangel turns her gaze to Aziraphale.

"We see you found your flaming sword at last," she says in a tone that might have been approval. "The time has come to rejoin our ranks, Aziraphale. Prove yourself in this war and your past crimes may be forgiven."

Her words reach deep into Crowley's soul and twist with icy fingers. "It's alright, angel," he mumbles. "I'll be fine."

Aziraphale ignores him.

"I'm afraid I shall have to decline," he says shakily, summoning all his courage to meet Auriel's gaze. "This planet and the creatures inhabiting it deserve better than to be consumed by a war they have nothing to do with. I will not have a part in this." The angel tightens his grip on the sword and swallows hard. "A-and you will have to get past me if you want to harm the boy. He is _innocent_."

Auriel just laughs at that and it rings like glass shattering against stone. "What is the boy to us? He refused to play his part. Not that it matters now. But do as you wish, Aziraphale of the Cherubim. There is courage in dying for what you believe in."

And with a flurry of white feathers, she vanishes into the sky.

Aziraphale stares at the demon, stunned. "It _cannot _be that simple."

"Simple?" Crowley echoes hoarsely. "This is not over. She knows who is coming for us. After all, punishment has _always _been Hell's responsibility."

-/-

For a while they consider to flee but there is no place on Earth where they wouldn't be found and they cannot take the children away from the planet. So they wait, and waiting is torture.

They hear them coming from a long way off, scattered howls in the distance. Crowley winces and presses himself closer to a tree.

"They have caught our scent. It won't be long now."

Aziraphale nods as if it meant anything.

"Don't you get it, angel? They are coming to kill us. They'll take it _slow_."

"I imagine they will," Aziraphale agrees and leans back slightly. Fabric tears as his wings burst free, still pure and white, and the sword in his hand comes to life. Crowley watches in awe. Even tartan cannot hide the wrath of heaven and Aziraphale burns with it to the tips of his wings.

"Come," the angel says and reaches out a hand to Crowley. It is cold when he takes it. "You were an angel once, remember that. These children of Lillith are nothing to you."

"There will be others of the Fallen," the demon whispers, shaking his head. "We cannot hope to… we cannot _hope_."

Aziraphale regards him in silence for a moment. "I know," he replies finally.

-/-

So they fight.

They fight in the absence of hope.

They fight in the absence of justice or reason.

They fight as demons dance around them like rabid cats, hissing, and frenzied, and dripping with the pleasures of the hunt.

They fight when all the children are slaughtered and it is all they can do to keep each other alive.

From the distance, the Fallen are watching the game dispassionately. They have all the time in the world and they wait until their prey is exhausted before they come to finish what their lesser siblings have begun.

In the end, the demon and the angel cling to one another in the shelter of their wings, when they have no strength left. There is madness and agony beyond their feathers, and they hold onto each other until it is all over.

When Death finally approaches, the demons scatter before him like frightened insects.

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_Please leave a comment!_


	3. 03 Cocktails

_Something light and fluffy with a dash of romance on the eve of Armageddon't. Because yesterday's story was so gloomy, eh. This is actually one of the first stories I wrote for this fandom._

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**COCKTAILS**

_Fluff, romance, first kiss, mild A/C slash._

When the angel and the demon drank, all bets were off. They had made that a formal part of The Arrangement shortly after proper wine was invented.

Typically getting drunk involved a casket of fine French bordeaux at the Ritz but this was the First Day of the Rest Of Their Lives and Crowley felt a little celebration was in order.

"So, angel," he said, alcohol-driven confidence pulsing through his veins. "Ever had a proper cocktail?"

The angel bristled. "Of course not. Sugary drinks designed to trick young ones into having more than they should. Surely an invention of your lot."

Crowley grinned toothily. "A good one."

"Wine is a perfectly fine beverage. Besides, we've both had plenty tonight, my dear."

"Ssssshut up, angel. I happen to know a place."

-/-

"I'll have you know," the angel cried over the deafening beat, "the music is a disgrace. I'm sure I don't know how you stand it."

Not for the first time that night, Crowley chose to ignore him. "And one Long Island Iced Tea for my associate here."

Aziraphale was tentative when he tried his first drink, and then he wasn't anymore. Together they went through most of the cocktail menu before the club closed. By then the angel was hopelessly drunk.

-/-

Somehow they managed to make it back to the bookshop, supporting each other.

"Cocktails," Aziraphale said slowly. He had trouble linking words into proper sentences. "One of your better ideas, I have to say."

"Told you sssssso."

They collapsed onto the angel's couch in the back room and spent a few minutes quietly hiccuping while the room was spinning around them.

"We should sober up," the angel said finally, although not without a hint of disappointment in his voice.

"Nonssssense. If we do, what'ssss the point of getting drunk in the firsssst place?"

"You smile when you're drunk."

Crowley did a double take. "What'sss that ssssuppossssed to mean?"

The angel blinked meaningfully at him. "You never smile otherwise."

This earned him an indignant glare. "Of courssse not," Crowley hissed back. "I'm a demon."

-/-

Under the influence of alcohol, Crowley's brain felt like honey dropping very slowly from a spoon. He successfully identified his current intention to be finding a bed to drop into headfirst. He vaguely remembered having such a bed in his apartment.

He tried to stand up (which was proving more difficult than anticipated) until Aziraphale's voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Are you leaving?"

He had never heard the angel like this, voice dripping vulnerability (or perhaps he had but ignored it). To his own surprise he found that he could not ignore it now.

"No," he said quickly and let himself plop back down on the sofa. "I'm not leaving, Zira."

The angel stared at him wide-eyed. "You haven't called me that in a while."

"You sssssaid you didn't like it," Crowley gave back drowsily, trying not to think too much about how the tone of the angel's voice sent a shiver down his spine.

"I think I changed my mind," Aziraphale said quietly and when Crowley turned his head to face him, the angel stared right back at him.

-/-

Later, neither of them were sure exactly how it started but they secretly agreed that it must have been Aziraphale who eventually lifted his hand to Crowley's cheek.

"You are beautiful," he said quietly, earnestly.

Crowley swallowed, and blinked, and stared at the chubby, white-blond creature next to him. The sight terrified and thrilled him like nothing ever did.

He fought back the dizziness and his own common sense, and climbed into the angel's lap. Drunken heat was flooding him and he buried his face in Aziraphale's shoulder, one hand coming up to thread into his hair. In this moment, his world was reduced to the body of the angel underneath him and the usually faint scent of his aftershave that invaded his senses now.

Aziraphale pulled him back and looked up at him with desperate helplessness. "You are beautiful," he repeated. "You are."

Tension tore him apart and, not knowing how else to make it bearable, Crowley bent down to press his lips against Aziraphale's. Beneath him, the angel shuddered. Crowley drew claw-like nails across the angel's neck, and through his short locks, and down his cheek, until Aziraphale broke away, pressing his forehead against the demon's collarbone.

"Stay," he breathed. "Please stay."

Crowley did try very hard to compose a structurally sound sentence from the million ways of saying yes that occurred to him at that moment.

"Cocktailssss, huh," he blurted out eventually.

And wasn't that the truth.

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_Please leave a comment!_


	4. 04 Held

_Wrote this one night while listening to "I Hold You" by CLANN. On repeat. About a dozen times._

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**#04 HELD**

_Hurt/Comfort, fluff, established relationship, A/C slash._

I wake up in the middle of the night, startled, and there are ghosts of memories lingering in the darkness. In this moment of in-between, of half-sleep, I drift back into the illusion of running my fingers through his hair and it seems so real that it sends shivers down my spine.

A dream, no more.

The realisation leaves a deafening silence in its wake, a heavy weight that settles on my chest while those dream-shapes of touch and warmth and need are still dancing shamelessly in the dark.

Mocking.

Suffocating.

Overwhelming.

Too much.

I reach out then, helplessly, blindly. For something - anything - to cling to and my hand brushes against skin that is not my own.

There is a sleepy sigh and the rustle of sheets, and I tear my hand away as if it was burned, holding my breath, pressing my eyes shut.

"Angel?"

I would recognise his voice anywhere.

Shouted from across the street over the noise of cars rushing past.

Mumbled from behind a piece of newspaper he's pretending to read.

Whispered dazedly in the middle of the night with no light to see his face.

"Angel, 's up?"

A hand reaches over and bumps into my arm clumsily. I lay paralysed, barely dare to breathe. His smell is there, too, now - how had I not noticed it before? - and his fingers find my wrist and linger there. Forming words into a sentence has never been harder.

"I woke up," is what I manage eventually.

"Yeah. Woke me up, too."

"I'm sorry."

"Nah. 's fine. What's the matter?"

There is genuine concern in his voice, so much of it that my eyes are stinging with tears all of the sudden. I cannot remember having heard him like this ever before. Quiet. Tender, even. Slow, as if I was a grazing deer, easily startled.

It's too much, I mean to tell him while he pushes himself up, awake now, and throws his shadow over me (invisible in the darkness, but I can feel it). His fingers tighten around my wrist, his skin cool to the touch. Cold-blooded, I remember vaguely.

"Angel," he repeats for the third time, low and gentle.

I cannot quite recall when it was that he began calling me that, or when this simple word became so inexplicably soft rolling off his tongue that my breath catches in my throat.

"You're here," I say, too far gone to be embarrassed about stating the obvious. "You're real."

He laughs then, a quiet sound, and leans forward to nuzzle my neck. Hot breath washes over my skin, and this time I cannot suppress the helpless gasp in the back of my throat.

"Hush," he whispers against my skin before pressing an open-mouthed kiss below my jaw. "I've got you, angel."

Before my brain has time to catch up, I sink one hand in his auburn hair, carding my fingers through them like I had in my dream. Had it even been a dream? So many centuries spent, watching him drag his fingers through those strands carelessly. Push back that one that keeps falling into his eyes.

In a moment of wonder, I realise how I must be the first with his permission to touch him this way. How I must be the only one.

"You're here," I mumble again and feel his lips curl into a smile against my skin.

He doesn't remark on the pathetic tremble in my voice.

He doesn't laugh at the desperation with which I cling to him.

He wraps me up in his arms like a child and pulls me closer. Tucks my head under his chin and presses another kiss into my hair.

"I'm here," he confirms, voice vibrating in his chest like I never heard it before, and he holds me until I drift off to the sound of his heartbeat.

* * *

_Well?_


	5. 05 An Acquired Taste

_Crowley takes the angel to a Jazz club. No slow dancing, sorry. Full disclosure - I have never been to a Jazz club myself so everything is completely made up. Whoops. Also please assume that Aziraphale drinks only wine and never hard liquor for the purpose of this story (I know he does drink scotch in the show). Of all my stories, I think this is one of the better ones._

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**#05 AN ACQUIRED TASTE**

_Some angsty yearning and implied A/C slash._

"No," Aziraphale said firmly. "Absolutely not."

"Oh come on, angel. It'll be fun."

"Any establishment with a … a … a temptress longing over the entrance is no place for my kind. For heaven's sake, Crowley. I'm grateful for the invitation but do take us somewhere respectable."

"Very respectable place, this," Crowley insisted and swung his legs out of the Bentley. "Glenn Miller played here once, did you know that? Now come on, or I'll lock you in the care while I go and have a drink."

"You wouldn't," Aziraphale muttered indignantly but apparently he wasn't so sure after all because he did get out quickly. "Lift home, you said."

The demon grinned. "I'll take you home eventually. But first, we drink."

Mitzi's Ginger was a Jazz club - and quite a prestigious one at that - and there was indeed the backlit shape of a very pretty woman draped over the front door. A bouncer attempted to approach them when they passed through but thought better of it when Crowley shot him a pointed glare.

"They know you here?" Aziraphale asked nervously.

"Yeah. Sort of."

Double doors swung open and they entered the smoky heart of the club, an intricate labyrinth of shaded corners and crimson drapes, with dimmed light from sources you never saw. Someone was playing the piano.

"Well?"

"It's not so bad," Aziraphale conceded. Clad in his customary cream-coloured suit (complete with vest and bowtie), he looked ridiculously out of place in the gloom. "I'd like to sit somewhere close to the stage. The pianist is excellent."

Crowley put a hand on Aziraphale's back and gave him a light shove just to make him squirm. "You go and find a table then. I'll fetch us a drink."

Under different circumstances, Crowley would have taken the opportunity to flirt with the exceptionally handsome bartender (who took his orders with professional flourish) but today his mind was elsewhere.

I brought an angel to a Jazz club to indulge in drinks and slow dancing, he told himself as he watched Aziraphale from across the room and felt something warm and excited coil in his treacherous stomach. Another victory for Downstairs, a stain on his divinity. Hail Satan and everything.

He ordered a straight drink for Aziraphale just to spite him.

There were no words at all on his mind when he returned to the angel, but it was just as well since Aziraphale was watching the pianist. He slid a glass of cognac on the rocks across the table and the angel curled his fingers around it silently.

Crowley narrowed his eyes irritably. Come on, you never drink hard liquor.

But Aziraphale lifted the glass and sipped from it without batting an eye. If the cognac bothered him, he didn't show, his expression one of perfect serenity. Crowley kept starting because the angel still had his eyes fixed on the stage and seemed wholly preoccupied. He noticed how there was an almost imperceptible shadow tracing the angel's cheekbone and how the artery in his neck was visible from this angel, beating steadily.

"I know why you took me here," Aziraphale said suddenly.

How could you if I don't even know myself?

Crowley arched one eyebrow at him and pretended to be totally indifferent. "Oh?"

"Yes. Well. You are, er, trying to, ah … tempt me."

"As you yourself pointed out on numerous occasions, that's what I do," Crowley gave back drily.

"No." Aziraphale was visibly flustered now. "This is different. And you know I don't drink, well … whatever this is. It burns horribly in my throat."

Crowley smirked despite himself. And here he thought his provocation had been in vain. "That is very expensive cognac. An acquired taste. It takes some getting used to."

"A bit like you, then," Aziraphale said quietly.

It was meant to be a joke. Crowley didn't laugh but he did drop his glass and it landed on the table with a dull thunk. There was a tense silence until Aziraphale cleared his throat awkwardly.

"My point is," he said, staring pointedly at his feet, "my point is that I know you are trying to, well, s-seduce me."

"Why would you think that?" Crowley mumbled.

We don't talk about this, angel. Not ever. What are you doing?

Aziraphale swallowed but he wasn't letting it go. "I may be an angel, but I'm not that naive. I know why people come to these, ah, establishments. And I know the way you look at me, Crowley. When you think I won't notice. I have not been discorporated in centuries because for some reason you are always there to intervene."

"Shouldn't you be thanking me then, inssstead of complaining?" Crowley was dimly aware that he'd been hissing again, but the alcohol was beginning to get to his head and he could care less about fixing his tongue. All he knew was that he had to change the subject, and fast.

"No! Well, yes, of course, but - I mean you always insist - that's not the point, Crowley!"

"What issss the point then?"

Aziraphale froze and blinked, and then he inhaled deeply and brushed one hand across his face. "The point is," he replied calmly, "that nothing can ever come of it. You know that, don't you?"

The angel's tone was almost gentle now and Crowley hated it. Hated how it made his stomach flutter and contract. He glared at his empty glass and it refilled promptly. "Courssse I know," he snapped and tossed the scotch back in one go before jumping to his feet unsteadily. "You comin' or what?"

He was already half-way to the exit when the angel slowly got up, straightened his waistcoat and set out to follow him.

"An acquired taste," Aziraphale said, very quietly and just to himself, and the smile on his lips was a little wistful and a little sad.

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__I might write a follow-up to this at some point. _Please leave a comment!_


	6. 06 All That Remains

**#06 ALL THAT REMAINS**

Where there was once a spacious, dusty bookshop, smoke and an orange glow now emanate from burnt-out ruins. They watch from a distance as the firefighters work on putting out the last of the flames. It is clear that hardly anything will remain of the structure.

"Three hundred years," Aziraphale says shakily, his eyes fixed on the smouldering remains of his home. "Three hundred years I kept it in perfect shape. Three hundred years of souvenirs and books, _priceless_ books, and _wine_, and…" His voice catches in his throat. "Now it's all gone. Just like that."

Crowley swallows and takes his shades off to clean them on the hem of his shirt, another nervous habit he picked up in recent centuries. "Yeah. Sorry about this, angel."

Aziraphale just shakes his head weakly. "Not your fault," he whispers.

"I suppose." Crowley replaces his shades and stares at the angel's back, slumped shoulders and all, and for what he says next, he has to gather up all his courage (although it feels as though he used up most of it at that airbase in Lower Tadfield). "You know, my offer still stands. If you don't know where to stay. Tonight."

For a while, he's certain the angel didn't hear or that he's ignoring him. It takes several minutes until Aziraphale finally tears his eyes away from the ruined bookshop and turns to face the demon. The grief in his eyes washes over Crowley like icy water.

"I would like that," he says quietly. "You have my word that I'll stay out of your way."

Crowley's reply is a vague grunt which is the most casual reaction he can muster.

When the angel and he were not out and about, they usually withdrew to the bookshop. He can barely remember the last time Aziraphale had been in his flat (and then only briefly because the angel had begun muttering about a profound sense of fear in the air that made him uncomfortable). The thought of having Aziraphale in his home now - after centuries of invading the angel's private space just for the fun of it - ties his stomach into an anxious knot.

They go on foot for once, the absence of the Bentley weighing heavy on the silence. Neither of them talk about their losses, or the fact that the world had just been saved against all odds. Somehow their sorrow and their relief balance each other out until there is only the shock that comes with all great change.

Soho's nightlife with its brilliant lights and laughter flashes past them like fleeting impressions from another world. They walk side by side, but each lost in their thoughts and farther apart than they have been ever since the beginning of the end eleven years ago. Crowley imagines them going back to their regular routine and it feels like loneliness coiling tightly around his neck.

_Dining at the Ritz every once in a while._

_Storming into the bookshop when boredom strikes, but no more than once a month or else the angel gets the wrong idea._

_Sometimes meeting in St James's to feed the ducks._

Ordinary life does not include seeing Aziraphale on a daily basis and somehow that has become unimaginable. There are multiple ways of expressing this thought that come to Crowley's mind, all of them impossible to say out loud. He fumbles for Aziraphale's hand instead, wraps thin fingers around plump ones and holds on for all that is dear to him. He feels the angel beside him tense up in surprise. He feels startlingly blue eyes bore into the side of his face, but refuses to turn his head.

They arrive at his flat with hands clasped tightly. It is Crowley who lets go then, as if the skin of the angel had suddenly become poisonous.

"Guest room's through there," he mutters and vaguely waves a hand in the right direction. "Don't mind the plants, they're manipulative little bastards."

"Oh, they seem perfectly fine to me. Myself, I have never been able to keep plants alive for long. I forget to water them, you see. One good book, and I tend to lose myself for…"

Crowley tunes the angel's voice out until he is pleasant background chatter. He goes right for the liquor cabinet and pours himself a glass of Scotch. It burns his throat with the promise of oblivion.

"Don't forget to sober up later, or you'll regret it in the morning," Aziraphale tells him sagely from somewhere down the corridor. He gets a noncommittal grunt in return. "Really, dear, your house plants seem to thrive _terrifically_. Whatever is it that you put in their soil?"

"The fear of God," Crowley mutters and that is at least partly the truth. "Go sleep, angel. It's been a long day."

"You _know_ I don't sleep. Virtue-"

"Yes, yes. Ever-vigilant. How could I forget. _Temptation_, however, does take a nap on occasion, so if you would please excuse me."

Crowley practically flees the room with the pressure of the unsaid building up in his throat until he can barely breathe. It is not so much the desire to be alone as it is all he'd rather tell the angel and how hard it is becoming to remember why it's best to shut up.

Of course Aziraphale - stubborn, _oblivious_ Aziraphale - follows him all the way to his bedroom.

"Before you go to sleep, there is something I wanted to tell you, Crowley. Stop running away, for heaven's sake."

"Well, what is it? Better get on with it, there's at least a week's worth of sleep to catch up on for me."

"Just one thing." This is Aziraphale, fidgety Aziraphale, wringing his hands and looking pained. "Just one little thing I meant to say. After everything that happened, we, well... just remember that we still have each other."

For the first time since they have arrived, Crowley looks up to meet the angel's gaze and Aziraphale stares back, eyes wide open and shining earnestly. There is something just below the familiar layer of kindness on his face that twists Crowley's stomach almost unpleasantly, but he says nothing and returns his attention to his drink.

"We have both lost what was most dear to us today," the angel continues. "And after what we did, well. There _will_ be a reckoning. I doubt we have another week on this Earth."

Crowley's head snaps up and his eyes burn so fiercely, they shine through the shades. "It's not _fair_. Not after we went through all this trouble."

"I know," Aziraphale replies softly and takes a step closer. "None of this is right. But we always knew it couldn't go on forever, didn't we? We had six millennia, so much more than any of the mortals get. We had each other to last through the ages when everything else died."

Crowley just stares, and the angel keeps advancing and it terrifies him. Part of him wants to drop the glass and run. Part of him tells him that _yes_, this is what he's been waiting for, wishing for. Slowly, as if driven by an unseen force, he reaches up and takes his shades off, to see the creature before him clearly for once, even if taking in all the angel's brightness burns his eyes. Later he won't remember exactly where the shades and his glass ended up.

When Aziraphale stops before him, their noses are almost touching and Crowley has to bow down a little. With a courage he wasn't aware of possessing, he lifts one hand to press against Aziraphale's jaw, painfully aware of how his fingers quiver at the contact.

"Angel…"

Aziraphale raises his chin to catch his eye. "Say my name," he asks quietly.

For a while, Crowley has to concentrate on his breathing and the ground under his feet to steady himself. There is the skin of the angel under his fingertips as he brushes them up along his jawline to touch his cheekbones, and the scent of the angel's cologne that always struck him as overbearing but is so intoxicatingly _him_ now that it sends the demon reeling.

"Aziraphale," he whispers dazedly and the name is like a foreign prayer on his lips, blasphemous and forbidden. "_Aziraphale_."

His eyes slip close when the angel - and that is who he's always been, _The Angel_ \- leans forward to press his lips against his neck, and there is his warm breath, too, tickling his skin. Without thinking he buries his hand in Aziraphale's short, ash-blond curls and grips tightly, perhaps too tightly because the angel gasps and looks up.

It's the desperate helplessness in the angel's eyes that pushes Crowley into the madness entirely, the way he learns in that moment that angelic desire is not an antonym, and that _this_ angel's desire is for some unfathomable reason for _him_.

He kisses him then, sloppily and off-center because he's done it before but that was a long time ago and with someone else. One of his hands is still lost in the angel's hair, but he reaches up with the other one to touch Aziraphale's waist, sliding it underneath his suit coat and pressing hard into his skin. It occurs to him that perhaps, for the angel, he would have to learn to be gentle some day.

But not now, not when his mind has shut down and the need to be closer intensifies with every touch. He whirls the angel around to press him against the wall - or perhaps the cupboard or the next door, he doesn't care too much - and feels Aziraphale's fingers slide into his own hair. Almost involuntarily he flicks his forked tongue across the angel's lips and feels him shudder violently in response.

They break apart then, and Crowley stares wide-eyed. He wants to ask if the angel is alright and if he wants this as much as he does but the words die on his lips when he catches the angel's eye.

It is Aziraphale who reaches out a hand, and Crowley who takes it and leads him up to the roof where they can breathe easier and watch the city lights. They do not talk about what is to come because there is nothing to say that they don't already know. Humanity at their feet hustles about in blissful ignorance while the angel and the demon find a silent agreement.

Whatever happens, dear.

_Come what may._

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